


I Think You're My Best Friend

by trohmenace



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: M/M, THIS IS REALLY OLD PLEASE BE WARNED BEFOREHAND
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trohmenace/pseuds/trohmenace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the end, I'd do it all again. I think you're my best friend, Patrick Stump."</p><p>Let's face it, Patrick Stump is not the most popular kid in the nephilim world; he's not the most popular kid in any world, really. There's a reason he's seventeen and still doesn't have a parabatai. That is, until he meets renowned Shadowhunter, Pete Wentz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

It's a crisp fall evening when Patrick is called out of his dorm at the Chicago Institute for "a little business". Not far from the city, a demon has been running rampant in a bookstore for quite some time. Luckily, no mundanes with The Sight have been around to see it, but "we can't take a chance on this", as the Inquisitor had explained.

Patrick is assigned to work with Joe Trohman, a relatively cool guy about the same age as him. He's lucky that he hadn't ended up with someone like Frank or Gerard, or they would've left him behind. Nobody pays much attention to Patrick.

It's not that he's a bad fighter or anything, because he's not. He just can't simply be as "cool" as the rest of them. That's all there is to it. He doesn't have a real family name, only half of one - when he was dropped off at the Institute as a baby, half of his family name had been smudged off the papers thst his mother had left: _Stumph-_

As a result, he just took all that he knew: Patrick Martin Stumph, which he had changed to Patrick Vaughn Stump later. (It just sounded better, in Patrick's opinion. If you have to change your name, make it a good one.)

Even though he's a decent Shadowhunter, nobody cares much. Orphans don't have much power. No family to back them up. He'd lived with it for most of his life; it doesn't bother him as much now.

He pulls on his gear, all-black everything. He takes Ustrina, his sword, from his nightstand and slides it into its sheath in his weapons belt. As a final touch, he grabs his leather jacket before heading out the door. As long as he's already wearing black-on-black-on-black and pretty much looking like the goth revival, the jacket shouldn't hurt much.

Joe and Patrick meet up for the hunt in some small town in Illinois. Soon, they're sitting in a bookstore and trying to act inconspicuous - after all, hunting demons is a sneaky act - when their conversation turns into who knows who in the Shadowhunter world. They've been making small talk for a while when Joe tells Patrick that he knows the "semi-famous" Pete Wentz.

And let's face it, Patrick Stump is not the most popular kid in the nephilim world; he's not the most popular kid in any world, really. There's a reason he's seventeen and still doesn't have a parabatai. He might have asked Joe, in the past, but Joe claims to already be linked to some guy named Andy - though Andy's never around, and Joe never has his sleeves rolled up long enough for Patrick to find any sign of a parabatai rune. Patrick wouldn't be surprised if Joe made Andy up so that Patrick never acted on the idea of being parabatai with him.

Still, Joe and Patrick stick together quite a lot, and that's why Patrick's quite surprised when Joe brings up knowing Pete Wentz.

Everybody knows who Wentz is; he's like a demon-slaying hero, the guy every young Shadowhunter looks up to. It's not that Joe's not cool enough to be friends with Wentz, because he is, but from what he's heard, Pete doesn't have many friends. Maybe not even a parabatai.

When Patrick asks Joe about how they met, Joe just shrugs. "We started talking about mundane music. It's not bad, actually. Did you know that Wentz grew up in the mundane world? It explains all of his tattoos, I knew that they didn't look like runes..."

"Joe. Focus."

"Right. Anyways, Wentz and I started hanging out a little. We went on a few demon hunting parties together. He's a pretty cool guy. In fact, I think he's hosting a party tonight." Joe slaps Patrick on the shoulder and smiles. "You should come. He said I could bring whoever I wanted. Consider yourself my lucky guest."

Patrick draws in a sharp breath. Going to a party is a big deal. Going to a party with someone relatively cool like Joe Trohman is a bigger deal. But going to a party with a cool guy like Joe AND possibly meeting Pete Wentz? Well, let's just say that Patrick may or may not have to stop himself from pinching his thigh to make sure this is real.

"What about Andy?" Patrick asks, making sure that Joe doesn't double-guess his decision to bring Patrick along to this party. It could ruin his rep, or whatever normal Shadowhunters worried about.

Joe simply shrugs. "He's at the Institute in New York for some kind of training. And from what I can feel in my rune, he's getting his ass kicked." The curly haired boy smiles and stands. "Now come on. We're not going to any party if we don't score some demon blood."

As if on cue, Patrick hears a scream coming from the back of the bookstore. He pats his side; _Ustrina_ is still there, in its sheath. Time to kill a demon.

 


	2. Part Two

Patrick is surprised by how friendly Pete Wentz is - although maybe that's only because he's drunk. Still, Wentz looks like the king of badassery - jet black hair, smudged eyeliner, decked out in all black - and it makes Patrick feel just a little self conscious. 

Maybe he should have come in some clothes that resembled fighting gear, like Pete. He's just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and of course his hat. Plus his glasses. If he gets drunk at this party - which he's sure won't happen, since he's only seventeen and they won't let him anywhere near the bar - he needs to make sure to keep his glasses on his face. Otherwise, he's about as good of use as a vampire in the daylight.

"So you're the Stump kid that Joe was talking about bringing?" Pete slurs, smiling widely. That breaks Patrick out of his thoughts, and he also notices that Joe has left him alone with Pete. Whom he has never met. Surrounded by additional people whom he has, again, never met. Great.

"Uh. Um. Yeah. I'm him," Patrick stutters, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. It creates a strangely empty feeling to not have his stele there. At the last minute, he'd convinced himself to leave it home instead of bringing it to the party. He's regretting it now.

"Nice to meet you," Pete grins. Patrick starts to make a mental note that Pete is not only the most badass person in the Chicago Institute, but also the most smiley person he's ever met. Although, again, that may just be because he's drunk. "Ha, you're cute."

Patrick feels his face burn bright red. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he knows that it wasn't this. "I. Um. I..."

Pete laughs heartily and claps a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Relax, 'Trick. Just having some fun."

Patrick decides that he really likes the nickname 'Trick. 

"So tell me about yourself, Patrick," Pete says, leading him to the couch and plopping down on it. 

"Well, I, um, I'm seventeen, I live at the Chicago Institute -"

"No, no. Not that. The stuff that matters." Pete explained, twirling his stele around his fingers. "How about what you named your sword, there?"

Patrick blushes. Even when he decides not to bring his stele, he still forgets to take off his weapons belt. Of course. That's embarrassing. He takes his sword from it's sheath and holds the hilt gently. "Ustrina."

"Pretty," Pete remarks, "Latin?"

Patrick nods, putting the sword away again. "Yeah. It means fire. 'The place where the bodies burn' in Roman history, though some say it was actually the Britons."

"That's sorta gruesome, yet cool," Pete grins, tossing his empty beer can across the floor. It hits some guy in the shoulder, but in his drunken stupor, the man doesn't seem to notice.

Patrick shrugs. "I just always kind of thought of it as a demon-slaying name. Like, the demons will burn before they cause everything around them to burn, and my sword is the final place for their body."

Pete doesn't say anything, but draws in a deep breath. Oh God. He shouldn't have said anything. He sounds weird. Too weird.

To his surprise, Pete throws an arm around him. "That's, like, one of the coolest sword backstories I've ever heard." Patrick lets out a sigh of relief.

"What's yours called?" Patrick asks sheepishly. Pete draws his blade from his own weapons belt - Patrick's semi-glad to see that he's not the only one carrying gear around - and uses it to gesture as he talks.

"I named her Folie á Deux. It's French. 'The madness of two.'" 

That makes Patrick wonder. What exactly is the madness of two? Love? Betrayal? Fighting over the last slice of pizza?

"Why that?" Patrick asks, and Pete smirks.

"Don't you worry, Patrick. I think we'll spend enough time together in the future for you to figure it out."

-

When he wakes up the next morning, he finds himself on a dark and slightly dirty couch in a living room that he doesn't recognize. He panics for a minute, before remembering the events of last night. He breathes a sigh of relief when he remembers that he was never drunk. 

In fact, he hadn't done much at all. He simply sat on the couch and talked to Pete - which proved to be surprisingly easy - until he crashed on the couch. He winces at the thought. Oh God, he's so lame. Why would he keep Pete from his friends? It was his party, after all. And now Pete had an underage loser sleeping on his couch. Good move, Patrick.

"Hey, you're up," a figure appears in the doorway. To Patrick's surprise, it seems that there is nobody else besides them in the small Chicago apartment - just him and Pete.

The black-clad man plops himself down onto the couch beside Patrick, wincing slightly at the quick movement. Patrick feels a pang of empathy for Pete - he's probably pretty hungover. It makes him glad that he hadn't drank anything last night - not that he would have, but still.

"Sorry for crashing here last night," Patrick scratches the back of his neck, before combing through his hair with his fingers. His hat sits beside him, but it smells like beer. He wonders if someone had used it for beer pong after he fell asleep.

Pete shakes his head. "No problem. You were tired; I have a couch. Sorry about your hat, by the way." He grins sheepishly. "I like to think I look good in hats, and Brendon spills everything when he's drunk."

Well. That answers the question about his Bud Light soaked headwear. Now, it's coming back to him. He remembers the guy Pete threw the can at being more tipsy than everyone else, a giggly drunk. He was the one who had poured his beer all over himself, than proceeded to ask where the fuck his beer went twenty minutes later.

"Good to know," Patrick smiles back.

"You're an interesting guy, Patrick Stump," Pete says, reclining slightly on the couch and putting his hands behind his head.

"Never thought I'd hear that," Patrick muses, sniffing his hat one last time before deciding that it's pretty much wasted.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, right?" Pete answers. For the first time, Patrick notices that he isn't wearing any eyeliner now. Patrick secretly thinks that Pete looks better without it. Pete smiles again - wasn't this guy supposed to be rugged and tough? Not smiley? "Hey, you should join me on our next mission, okay?"

"Me?" Patrick asks, a bit stunned and also a bit grateful. 

"Yeah, of course, 'Trick," Pete opens his eyes for a second to lock with Patrick's. "I feel like we're going to be pretty good friends."


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've determined that there will be seven parts to this story, and I have six out of seven written already, so no worries. Happy New Year, and thank you for reading!

Patrick opens his eyes, breathing hard. Training is brutal, but if it helps him lose weight, then it's worth it.

Of course, he should he thinking of things other than weight loss. He has bigger problems. Shadowhunters always do. Demons. Downworlder alliances. Pete Wentz.

No. No. He shouldn't be thinking of Pete either. Not any more than he has to.

"Alright, Pat! I think we're good for today!" Joe waves from the other end of the course.

"You're only saying that because it's your birthday, and you don't want to drip sweat in your cake!" Patrick calls back.

"Damn right I am!"

Joe's finally eighteen today, a legal adult in the mundane world. Patrick's been eighteen for about five months now, and he's never let Joe forget it. Though, to his surprise, Joe never seems too bothered by Patrick's teasing any more, not since Andy got back from New York. 

The first time Patrick saw him, he couldn't believe that Joe's parabatai was four years older than him and covered in tattoos, let alone real. However, Andy had a small, light voice, and was about as harmful as a kitten. Probably less so, because Andy's a vegan, and cats can't survive as vegans.

The two of them grab some towels to absorb their sweat, and head toward the living quarters. They smell terrible, and Patrick is not going ANYWHERE smelling like rancid sweat. "So I was thinking, how about just you, me, Andy, and Pete?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. Where to?"

"Oh, that cute little vampire bar by the Starbucks a few blocks from here." Patrick groans. "Pat, I know vampires annoy you, but -"

"They don't annoy me. I'm fine with them as a kind. I'm not fine with it when they try to come after me."

"They just like you because you're pale! Vampires have a thing for that."

"You know what I don't have a thing for? People trying to SINK THEIR FANGS INTO MY NECK."

"Whatever, Pat. My birthday. My rules."

"Okay, birthday boy, did you think of Andy? What'll he say? He hates animal abuse of any kind. What's he going to do when we show up at a vampire bar and they start serving roadkill on silver platters?"

"He can suck it up. He's a Shadowhunter." Joe grins mischeviously, tapping his parabatai rune. "And if he's about to hurl, I'll know."

Patrick rolls his eyes, but good-naturedly. "You're an asshole. You know that, right?"

"You never let me forget it." Joe laughs, turning into his dorm, as Patrick opens the door to his own. It's fortunate that they're just across the hall from each other; it makes for good company.

Pete's sitting on Patrick's bed when the blonde boy walks into the room, but Patrick is used to that now. He and Pete have become surprisingly close over the last few months, up to the point where Patrick is sure that Pete has no physical boundaries. 

Pete jumps off the bed, ready to hug Patrick, until he catches a whiff of sweat. He wrinkles his nose and falls back onto the bed. "You know, 'Trick, the way to seduce me is not by smelling like a wheel of moldy cheese."

Patrick sticks his tongue out at Pete and throws the sweaty towel at him. "Whatever. I'm going to take a shower, anyway." He walks into the bathroom and clicks the lock before Pete can say anything about that.

"And you didn't ask me to join you? I'm hurt!" He hears Pete call while he's taking off his shirt, and chuckles a bit. 

Then he sees himself in the mirror and frowns.

He doesn't like the way he looks, isn't confident about it. He pats the fat on his stomach and feels his heart sink. Surely he should be losing more weight because of training?

He scans the runes on his arms - mostly on his shoulders, because he doesn't like the way they look farther down on his arms. They look stretched and weird, and not at all like a Shadowhunter's runes should. He has muscle, yes, but he also has "fluff", and that's not what his kind is supposed to look like.

Then he thinks of Pete. Pete, who talked to him for hours after just meeting him. Pete, who waits for him every day in his dorm. Pete, who instead of using his fame to make Patrick feel inferior, lifts the blonde boy up in ways that Patrick can't even comprehend. 

He doesn't really know what he's done to deserve Pete's friendship, but he's glad for it, whatever it is.


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear it up for those who haven't read The Mortal Instruments, parabatai are two best friends who are bound by a ritual in which they become linked. Only Shadowhunters, the demon hunters of the world, have this ritual. When two Shadowhunters become parabatai, they become battle partners and blood brothers, together for life. When one dies or gets hurt, the other will be able to feel it. It's considered the strongest bond in the Shadowhunter world, even stronger than marriage.
> 
> I hope this helps!

The bar isn't crowded, which is surprising, considering that it's a Friday night. That's good for Patrick. It means that there's less of a chance that he gets attacked by a vampire tonight, which he still doesn't understand. If the girls are after anyone, it should be Pete. He's the more "legendary" one.

Patrick looks over at this companion. _Legendary, my ass._ Sure, he might be a star in battle, but Wentz is really just a twenty-three year old manchild with an unusual obsession for pizza and eyeliner. Tonight, however, he's opted out of the eyeliner at Joe's request - "It's my birthday, and I'd rather you not look like the emo overlord tonight. Vampires are drawn to that sort of thing, and Patrick already has enough trouble with them."

Andy and Joe are doing some crossword puzzles together in an attempt to keep Andy from looking at the side dishes and puking. Patrick doesn't understand why Joe even likes this kind of place - all he ever orders is a steak. You can get steaks at literally almost every restaraunt in Chicago. Maybe they make better steaks here. Whatever. Not his personal preference. 

And literally all Andy can order is a salad. Which isn't even much of a salad. It's literally just lettuce and tomatoes. Pete is a vegetarian, but at least Patrick can order cheese pizza for Pete when he crashes in Patrick's dorm without having to worry about it.

Patrick brushes his hand over his stele, buried in his pocket like always, and sighs contentedly. Ever since he's started going out on missions with Pete, he always has two things: his stele, and Ustrina. Even when he's not in battle, he carries them around on his weapon belt. They're like a baby blanket in a way, a sense of security. In case anything ever happens to him or Pete, he wants to be prepared.

"You're staring, Lunchbox," Pete teases, scooting closer to Patrick. "Seduced yet?"

Patrick scoffs and shoves him playfully. "As if, douchecanoe."

Pete pretends to wince. "Ouch. Douchecanoe. That's a new one."

Patrick smiles innocently. "When did I ever call you that? I recall being nothing but a little angel to you ever since we met."

"Can you two stop flirting? Andy and I almost have this done. Thanks." Joe says, not taking his eyes off the page. Pete leans across the table and tugs on one of his curls.

"Also, can you think of a seven letter word for something rough with the letter 'a' as the second letter?" Andy adds, smirking slightly as Pete annoys his parabatai. 

Patrick says "sandbox" at the same time Pete says "Patrick". Joe shakes his head.

"Actually, it is neither of those words. Let's just pretend it's 'mandate' and call it quits." 

 -

After the meal, the four of them are walking to the Starbucks next door. Andy managed not to faint through the whole dinner, and now Joe is congratulating him by taking him out for coffee. Of course, Patrick can't help but think that this has been the plan the whole time.

It's only September, but it's still chilly in Chicago. The dynamic duo walk briskly in front of Pete and Patrick, blabbering about Joe maybe getting some tattoos, and where Andy got his so Joe knows where to get them, and what vegan drinks exist at Starbucks, and how Joe should try them because they're pretty good.

Pete takes Patrick's hand and swings their arms dramatically, picking up a slight skip. Patrick rolls his eyes and tries to hide a slight smile. So maybe it's a little gay, but that's just what Pete does. He's not afraid to be crazy and out there, so he does what he wants. Patrick wishes that he could have some of Pete's confidence. Is there a rune for that?

"Hey 'Trick, I've been thinking," Pete says out of the blue, dropping Patrick's hand and pushing open the the door to Starbucks.

"That's never good," Patrick replies, taking off his scarf. 

Pete waves his hand as if to brush off Patrick's last thought, which means that this is serious. The two of them find a booth for the group, while Andy bounces up and down in line, pointing at the menu and explaining eagerly to Joe, who looks like he regrets his decision a little. "What would you think of usbecomingparabatai?" Pete mumbles quickly.

Patrick's eyes widen. He's never heard Pete mumble. Patrick is the mumbler. Is Pete nervous? If Pete is nervous, that should probably make Patrick nervous. "Say that again?"

Pete takes a deep breath. "What if the two of us become parabatai? You know, rune binding us together, stronger as a team..."

Patrick can feel his heartbeat quicken. Never did he think he would have a parabatai. Then again, a lot of things changed when he met Pete. "You sure?"

Pete's face falls. "You don't want to."

"No! No! I do, I promise," Patrick rushes to reassure Pete, "I just wasn't sure why you'd choose me. I mean, you're a battle legend, and I'm...me."

Pete smiles. "Nah, 'Trick, you're a lot more than you think. You'll see."

"Did someone just get proposed to?" Joe asks, carrying over two soy lattes with Andy trailing happily behind him. "Or do you smile at Patrick like that on a normal basis?"

"Oh, lots of things happen on a normal basis," Pete retorts, wiggling his eyebrows. Patrick facepalms and sighs, scooting over to make room for Andy. Joe makes a pained expression and sits down next to Pete.

"Ew. Remind me not to ask next time."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Nobody got proposed to. I just agreed to be his parabatai, that's all." 

Andy's smile immediately brightened. "Congrats, guys!"

"You know, that could be like a proposal."

"Shut up, Joe."


	5. Part Five

Patrick and Pete are heartbroken.

Pete is too old for the formal parabatai ceremony. 

Patrick isn't, since he's still eighteen, but Pete has missed the cutoff date by five years. 

Now, as they sit on Patrick's bed in the dorm, the black haired man has his face in his hands, not daring to look at Patrick. "I'm so sorry, 'Trick," Pete murmurs, wiping away the tears forming in his eyes. Patrick reaches out and grabs his wrist.

"It's really okay, Pete. We don't have to be parabatai to bind us together." He gives a weak smile, but it doesn't change the fact that Pete is still killing himself over this. "It's not your fault that you're older than eighteen."

Pete doesn't respond. 

Patrick tries again. "Really, Pete. You're my best friend. I don't need to be bound to you to know how you're feeling. I can feel it in my gut, I promise. You and I, we make a great team, and we don't need to prove that to anybody. Besides, most Shadowhunters don't have parabatai. People like Andy and Joe just got pretty lucky."

That makes him think. Joe would have had to been fourteen when he and Andy became parabatai, maybe younger, since Andy is four years older than him. How long have those two known each other?

He shakes off the thought and begins to rub gentle circles into Pete's back, trying to soothe the fretting Shadowhunter. What can he do? They've missed the ceremony. 

Or have they?

After a minute of silence, Pete still doesn't respond, and Patrick curses under his breath. He's going to regret this in some way, probably, but he doesn't care at the moment. He whips out his stele and pulls Pete's arm closer to him.

Pete tries to pull back, but Patrick has a firm grip on his bicep. "Patrick, what are you doing?"

Patrick looks up at him for a second, blue eyes meeting brown. His jaw is set with determination. "It's too late for a formal ceremony, but the two of us are pretty informal, aren't we?" Pete bites his lip when he realizes what Patrick is about to do.

"Wait. Is this against the Code?" Pete asks, his hands becoming sweaty. He would be okay if he was the one getting in trouble, but he wouldn't risk Patrick for anything. 

"Not that I know of," Patrick mumbles, raising the tip of his stele to Pete's right arm. Pete winces a bit; all Marks hurt, but the parabatai rune is a special rune. It _burns._

"Hold still, and repeat after me," Patrick reminds him, carefully drawing the intricate shape onto Pete's skin.

"No need, I know the oath by heart," Pete responds, sending a quick smile at Patrick. The blonde boy notices and subconsciously smiles back, finishing the Mark. It's faded at the moment, since Pete and Patrick are not yet linked, but it's still one of the most beautiful Marks that Pete has ever seen.

"Your turn," Patrick says, putting his stele in his pocket, and letting Pete take his arm. "So we say it together?"

"Together," Pete agrees, trying to be as gentle as possible. "You know, I sort of wish we were having a formal ceremony. I heard there's supposed to be fire."

"You and fire don't mix, Wentz." Patrick grits his teeth as Pete copies the Mark from his arm onto Patrick's. "Hurry up. This is starting to burn and itch at the same time."

"Shut up. All right, you're done. Now say the oath with me, you douchecanoe."

"Stealing my insults, I see."

" _Just say the oath."_

"Geez, okay."

Pete grabs Patrick's right hand with his, holding tightly. He's not even sure that this will work. Patrick knows a lot of things, but even he doesn't know if this is possible. Sure, they have Marks now, but they're of no use without the oath.

They take a deep breath and begin the oath together. 

" _Entreat me not to leave thee,_

_Or return from following after thee—_

_For whither thou goest, I will go,_

_And where thou lodgest, I will lodge._

_Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God._  

 _Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried._  

_The Angel do so to me, and more also,_

_If aught but death part thee and me."_

Both of them can feel the burning in their arms. Their Marks flash and become jet black, a sign that the process has worked. However, an itching feeling begins to creep its way up their right arms, until suddenly it feels like their insides are ablaze. 

Patrick doubles over, crying out in pain, and squeezes Pete's hand tightly. Pete looks up at Patrick with a worried expression. He doesn't know much about the parabatai ceremony, but he knows that this is not supposed to happen.

"P-pete..." Patrick stutters, "what...happen?"

"Don't know," Pete pants, "not good."

Patrick cries out again and shudders violently, and it's taking all that Pete has not to give in to the same pain. The world is becoming blurry, a blazing mix of pain and fire and Patrick and Pete all at once.

Pete can feel all of his muscles ache, like he's been running for miles. Patrick's fingernails begin to dig into his palm, and he responds by tightening his grip on Patrick's hand. The smaller boy looks like he's about to black out, but Pete only holds tighter to keep him awake.

Sweat drips from both of their foreheads, and Pete clasps his other hand over Patrick's. He begins to see the black appearing at the edges of his vision. Everything becomes like a tunnel, until he only sees Patrick. "Come on, Lunchbox, keep pulling through."

It's a raging fire, consuming them, running through their blood, eating them from the inside out. But right as both of them feel like they're going to pass out, a cool settles over them. It suddenly just...stops.

They both fall back onto the bed, drenched in sweat and aching like Hell. "'Trick? You okay?" Pete attempts to sit up, brushing sweaty hair out of Patrick's face with wobbly arms.

"Holy smokes, Pete, if I had known that I'd have to go through all of that for you, I might have reconsidered," Patrick breathes, his sides heaving up and down quickly. Despite the pain in his stomach, Pete chuckles a little, because even after practically being burned alive, his best friend has a sense of humor.

"Now all we need are wedding rings," Pete teases back. "How many diamonds do you prefer?

"Don't want a ring. Just want a shower. A cold shower," Patrick responds, somehow managing to lift himself up onto his arms. 

"Am I invited, or are you turning me down again?"

"You are most definitely not invited. Go ask to use Joe's shower, we both reek of desperation and burnt arm hair."


	6. Part Six

Joe finds the two of them asleep in Patrick's dorm after the parabatai incident, Patrick on the bed and Pete on the floor. The black haired boy has only a pillow, but he's snoring contently nonetheless.

At least the two of them smell better now.

The curly haired boy jumps onto the bed, shaking Patrick awake. He wakes with a start, fumbling for his glasses. "What the hell, Joe?"

"Get up. We need you and Pete. There are five Hellhounds outside the Institute and we need a few more Shadowhunters to deal with them." Joe taps the bow and arrow on his back.

Patrick rolls off the bed as a response and falls next to Pete, waking the older boy up. Pete smiles upon opening his eyes, chucking mischeviously.

"Ah, Mister Stump, I always dreamed of the day when I would wake up next to you," Pete teases.

"Shut it, Wentz. Hellhounds outside the Institute. They need us, now."

Pete sits up instantly, grabbing at his waist to make sure that his weapons belt is still there. He grins when he realizes it is. "And to think, I didn't bring my eyeliner."

-

The Hellhound is huge. The four boys stand in front of it, trembling (though none of them want to admit that). It's got to be, what, six feet tall? Taller than any of them, though to be fair, they're all kinda short.

Patrick is about to draw his sword, but Pete stops him.

"I've got this," he murmurs, not taking his gaze off the demon. The gleam of battle shimmers in his eyes, and for the first time, Patrick senses that Pete is truly alive. He doesn't look like a twenty-three year old manchild anymore. He looks like a weapon of war.

And still, though Patrick knows all that Pete is capable of, he shakes his head. There's a tingling sensation in the back of his thoughts that's telling him that he can't let Pete go alone. They're parabatai. A team.

"No," Patrick insists, drawing Ustrina from its sheath. "Wherever you go, I go. It's in the oath."

Pete smiles at him. "All right, 'Trick. But stay close to me."

He unsheathes Folie á Deux and charges at the Hellhound, running faster than Patrick's ever seen before. Patrick is on his friend's heels, turning to duck between the Hellhound's legs. He raises Ustrina above his head and slashes at the demon's stomach, but he's only able to make a small cut.

The demon swipes the small boy out from under its' stomach with a huge paw. He hits the ground with an "oomph", landing on his side. He groans, pain tearing up his ribcage. He's sure it'll be bruised by morning, but at least there's no blood. Ustrina is a few feet away, covered in demon blood. He crawls over to the blade, then struggles to his feet.

"Patrick!" Andy yells, rushing over to help. Patrick raises an arm and waves him off.

"I'm fine! I'm fine! Help Pete!" Patrick exclaims, tightly gripping the hilt of his sword.

"Are you kidding me? Pete's fucking killing it over there!" Andy calls back to Patrick, gesturing at a figure on the Hellhound's back. Pete's actually _riding_ the goddamn demon, a crazed grin plastered onto his face. He has one hand full of dark fur, the other holding Folie high in the air. He looks powerful, beautiful in a way, and Patrick can't explain the warmth spreading through his stomach when he thinks about how proud he is of Pete.

He drives the blade down, buries it deep into the Hellhound's neck, and twists it. The demon releases an ear-splitting scream, before the unthinkable happens. Time seems to slow down in that moment, giving Patrick a high definition view of the situation.

The Hellhound rears back, barking like a maniac, and throws Pete off. Patrick watches in horror as his friend hurtles toward the ground in slow motion and crashes with a sickening thud. The grass beneath him begins to turn a dark red, and Patrick feels all the air leave his lungs in an instant.

He feels the pain all throughout his body right after Pete hits the ground, specifically in his chest. If Pete's broken a rib and punctured his lung, then he's fucked. Patrick sheathes the blade, ignoring the physical pain he feels. Panic spreads throughout his body. If it hurts this badly in him, he can't imagine what it must feel like to Pete.

The demon vanishes behind them in a mist of black ichor and ash, but the blonde boy barely notices. Patrick stumbles over his feet, running to his companion as fast as he can. He can hear Andy and Joe's exclamations of joy turn into shouts of panic. The burning in his chest intensifies, and he feels a tugging in his right arm, where the Mark is.

"Pete!" He cries, kneeling down beside the older man. Pete's breathing fast, struggling to push himself into a sitting position. "Easy, easy."

"'Trick, why the hell are you worrying about me?" He coughs a little, blood coming up when he does. Patrick winces, placing a hand on Pete's chest. It comes back wet.

Patrick bites his lip and looks over Pete. For the first time, he notices everything. The blood darkening his shirt. The tattoos, some with special meaning, some without. The Marks, decorating his body like battle scars. And finally, the parabatai rune. "Because I care."

Pete smiles weakly. "Yeah, well, I'm okay. Go slaughter some Hellhounds. I had that one covered."

"Maybe so, but I'm not leaving you here. Now, be still so I can pick you up."

Pete laughs. "You think you can pick me up? I think you must be the one who fell, not me."

"Shut up," Patrick mutters, lifting Pete's torso off the ground. Pete grunts a little, but makes no protest. Patrick is able to hoist him high enough to get him onto his back. Pete's warm breaths are quick and shallow on Patrick's neck, and his feet drag on the ground a little bit, but Patrick's not as concerned about that as the warm blood soaking into his back.

Suddenly Joe and Andy are beside him, holding Pete up so that he doesn't fall. Patrick is doing something between a speedwalk and a jog as beads of sweat dot his forehead, trying to get to the Institute doors as fast as he can without jostling Pete around too much. Andy pulls his shirt off and offers it to Joe as a makeshift wrap.

"Pete, you still with us?" Joe asks, trying to stop the flow of blood from Pete's chest with Andy's shirt. He ties it around the black-haired Shadowhunter, hoping that it'll keep at least a little bit of blood in him, but it's no use. If Andy's shirt hadn't been black to begin with, it would be red by now.

"Patrick," Pete murmurs, before going limp on his back. Patrick feels his chest tighten. The rune on his arm burns, but the link between them has not yet severed. Patrick hasn't felt the "snap" yet. Pete's unconscious, but alive.

"You little bastard," Patrick grimaces, bursting through the Institute doors. Joe and Andy head back out into the field once they know that Pete is going to be safe. As long as Pete's in the Institute, they have to join the rest of their kind to defend their home.

Patrick, on the other hand, is more concerned about Pete's safety, and rightly so. This is his parabatai, part of him.

Patrick hauls his friend into the hospital ward of the the Institute, heart pounding. "Someone! Help! I need help!"

Pete's taken from his back and placed on a stretcher. "Patrick, everything is going to be okay," a nurse soothes. Everything is going too fast. It's becoming a blur. The lights are too bright. What's happening to Pete?

"Pete?" He asks feebly, reaching out toward the stretcher. A nurse gently guides him away, out of the hospital ward, as the stretcher becomes smaller in his vision. No. He needs to see Pete.

He struggles against the nurse, watching helplessly as they carry his best friend away. The blood against his back is sticky and ever-present as doors swing shut behind them, and Pete vanishes from sight.

"No, no..." Patrick whispers, sinking to his knees.

_Oh, God. Pete._

This was supposed to be the first day of their lives as parabatai together. They're a team, they fight together. He curls up into a ball and runs his hands through his hair. He feels the wetness in his eyes, and digs his fingernails into his palms.

The last few months of his life begin to flash before his eyes. The party. Hunting missions. Sleepovers in his dorm. Andy's birthday. And just earlier today, when they'd made the promise. The one that was to remain unbroken.

Patrick was supposed to protect him. He'd been extra prepared, taking Ustrina with him everywhere as a precautionary measure. When the parabatai ceremony happened, it was supposed to bring him closer to Pete. It was supposed to make him understand how to protect him.

He wants to puke. Yeah, he feels closer to Pete than ever before now, but that means that he can feel the pain his best friend is going through. He wants to do anything to close the distance between them, to run to Pete's bedside and refuse to leave, but it's like his legs have forgotten how to work.

He's failed.

_Am I going to lose my best friend today?_


	7. Part Seven

The stark contrast of Pete's black hair against the white hospital pillow is the only thing Patrick can see.

All the red has been gone for a week now, and Pete almost looks peaceful as he lays there.

It makes Patrick sick.

He's used to a messy, always jumpy manchild that half-wrecks his room and buys him donuts in the morning after sleeping over. He's used to empty pizza boxes and various pages of lyrics strewn across the floor. (Pete says that he and Patrick should start a band. Patrick thinks that's highly unlikely.)

Pete's not meant to be still. He's meant to be high on life; always going, always running, always distracting Patrick from the inevitable. Because when Patrick finds himself in silence, he thinks. And the result of this thinking is often not pretty.

He's been forced to get used to the Mark on his arm burning. Always tugging, always threatening to break, but never actually cutting the tie.

He thinks of the last words Pete said before he fell unconscious.

" _Patrick._ "

And for the first time in days, Patrick Vaughn Stump lets himself cry.

He lets the tears roll down his cheeks, embed themselves into the bright white sheets on the bed.

He's tried to be as strong as possible, for everyone. For Andy and Joe. For himself, even. Shadowhunters are supposed to be strong. They're supposed to man up and carry on, because they have to continue for the greater good.

But Patrick's best friend, the one person that understands him in this world, could be dying, _goddammit_. And if he isn't allowed to cry at that, then he doesn't want to be a Shadowhunter anymore.

First he cries silently, trying not to alert any of the nurses. He wipes the wetness from his face every few seconds and sniffles, trying to compose himself.

Then he looks at Pete's right arm by mistake, directly at the parabatai rune, and he breaks down.

He falls down, down, down into a fit of gasping for air as he sobs, not bothering to wipe the snot running from his nose. He balls the sheets up in his fists as he cries, burying his face into the mattress. It's not fair, it's not fair that someone as amazing and talented and _radiant_ as Pete Wentz is suffering.

_It should have been me._

He loves Pete. He doesn't know in what way, but he does. All he knows is that he does not want this person - this amazing, wonderful person - who actually prevents him from feeling like shit to die. And maybe that's selfish, but Patrick doesn't care anymore. Patrick has the right to be a little selfish. He's watching the man that he loves like a brother, a lover, and a best friend all at the same time grow paler before his eyes.

Fuck.

He doesn't want to live in a world without Pete Wentz in it.

He's barely an adult himself; how would he make it? How would he go on, with the constant reminder of his failure practically tattooed onto his right arm? How could he live with the knowledge that he'd never see those brown eyes open and twinkling again, or that satisfied smirk?

With a pang in his chest and his heart shattered into a million pieces, he gets up and turns to leave.

...

He comes back at night, but only to say goodbye to Pete. They're taking him off life support tomorrow if nothing improves - which it hasn't.

Patrick so badly wants to scream at the doctors, "Give him longer! Please! Don't give up on him!"

But a small, tiny part of him knows that it would be unfair to Pete. If he's suffering in this world, why shouldn't he be allowed to leave?

A few of Pete's lyric pages are crumpled in his shaking hands, and he deposits them onto the bed as he plops down into the chair. The chair that hasn't moved for days. Patrick's chair, practically.

"Hey, man," Patrick manages to get out, eyes scanning Pete's face. He's still breathing, but not waking up. Maybe never waking up.

_Stop. Stop thinking about it._

"I miss you," he whispers, tears sliding down his face quietly. He can't sob; he's lost all of the energy to even muster it up. No, he cries in despair, in the throbbing pain of loss.

The flowers from Andy and the balloons from Joe still linger by the window. And for some reason, Patrick pushes himself out of the chair.

He takes every lyric page and smoothes it out before rolling it up and tying it to the strings of the balloons. He then grabs all of the balloons and ties them to the end of Pete's bed. It makes him feel just a little better that someone will see these and remember Pete.

Then again, everyone will remember Pete. He's a hero, and he always has been.

Nobody will remember Patrick.

...

It's three AM and he's been staring at the flowers for half an hour before he hears a change in Pete's breathing.

Immediately, his senses become alive, his hands lingering at Pete's arm. The black haired boy's breathing seems louder now, almost awake.

And Patrick sees brown.

The first thing Pete says - weakly, with a cracking, small voice, though he's still able to get it out - is, "Hey, Lunchbox."

If it isn't for all of the equipment surrounding Pete, Patrick would have thrown himself forward.

Instead, he feels his eyes water for the third time that day as he grabs Pete's hand. He tries to remain calm, but all of the emotions surging inside him right now are too much to handle. He stares at the bed for a few minutes, trying to figure himself out, while Pete waits. Patient only for Patrick, like he always is.

"Asshole," is all that Patrick can finally manage to get out before he can't resist anymore.

And then the two of them are crying, hugging, getting dangerously close to re-injuring Pete's already damaged chest.

"Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, don't you _ever_ pull that shit again, do you hear me?" Patrick wipes the snot off his face - he's not sure if it's his or Pete's, but he doesn't really care - as he fights the urge to dance in his joy.

"It makes me feel bad that you know my full name and I just call you Lunchbox," Pete chuckles, wincing as his chest moves.

"Don't change the subject."

"..."

"Why do you call me Lunchbox?"

"I have no idea. Pet name or something?"

He feels an overwhelming wave of emotion crashing in his chest. Pete, who gives him stupid nicknames and defends him and takes an interest in him even though nobody else does is _alive_.

"Pete, please," Patrick begs, laying his head on his arm. "I cannot go through that again. I...I can't lose you again."

"But you haven't lost me," Pete murmurs, looking up at the ceiling. "I did it for you, you know."

Patrick's head snaps up. "What?"

And then Pete is rambling. "The Hellhound, it was coming straight for you after it knocked you out of the way...I had to stop it...somehow climbed on it..." His voice trails off, and suddenly Patrick understands.

He can't be mad anymore, because he would do the same thing for Pete.

"I..." Patrick starts, but he doesn't know what words to finish it with. He doesn't know how to describe how grateful he is for this man, this man that he is so lucky to call his parabatai.

"I'm sorry," Pete says quietly, "I really didn't mean to."

"Don't apologize," Patrick mutters, feeling a ton of guilt piling up inside for being mad. "You saved my life."

"Yeah? Well you saved mine. Hauling me in here, sure, but even before that."

Patrick is confused. What could be Pete be talking about? They've gone on hunting missions and battled demons before, but Pete's never been injured - at least not life-threateningly, like he has been over the past week.

Pete smirks. "You don't know. Trick, you keep me sane, you little weirdo. I don't know why or how, but you get me. _Folie a Deux? The madness of two?_ That's me and you, buddy, parabatai. You couldn't get rid of me even if you tried."

There it is. The smirk that Patrick has missed so terribly. "You're an idiot, Wentz. You know that, right?"

"Maybe so, but in the end, I'd do it all again. I think you're my best friend, Patrick Stump."

"I think so too."

They sit in silence for a while, relishing in the fact that each has the other, and everything is all right. Patrick still has Pete's hand grasped tightly in his own, but it feels right. Somewhat assuring, somewhat like home.

....

The doctors find Patrick asleep in the chair a few hours later, and Pete reading over some odd papers tied to balloons.

_Fin._


End file.
